


Choices Unmade, Lives Unlived

by V_Evergreen



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:32:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3096650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_Evergreen/pseuds/V_Evergreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many ways a battle for a mountain could have ended, here are but a few.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choices Unmade, Lives Unlived

In another lifetime Tilda was her father’s bow. She stood in front of him as a dragon barrelled towards them, setting their whole life ablaze, and with it, everything she had ever known.

“Look at me Tilda, don’t look back.” She had never heard her father beg for anything in her short life but this is what she knew he would sound like, “Don’t look.”

Her father needed a bow and yet he had none. Only a string pulled tight between two struts of wood and her shoulder as a rest.

Her shoulder had been too low; her father had stood her upon broken debris and told her to hold still. She stood facing him, and he her. She could see the horror when he looked beyond her to Smaug and the apology when he looked at what had been made of his daughter.

“Don’t look.” He repeated. The dragon thundered behind her and her father had tears in his eyes.

She took a breath and held it. Her father’s arm pulled back.

With an apology carved in the lines of his face, he released the bow.

Her dress was thin and the fletching from the arrow ripped through fabric and flesh alike. The shoulder would heal and the flesh would scar but that was not what mattered.

The arrow killed the dragon.

Her father was a dragon slayer and she had been his bow.

In another lifetime she wore the scars on her shoulder as a mark of pride for the rest of her long life.

~o~

 

In another lifetime Legolas had no sooner turned his back on his father, in the wake of war, than his father reached out for him.

He was set on his vague journey to the north in search for the one they called Strider. It had been a mere suggestion from his father; and therefore a command to him.

But it seemed that his father had not been done. It was not the first time that he could remember his father holding him but it was the first time that Legolas had been grown enough to reach around his father with both arms.

Safe in his father’s embrace his uncertain future did not seem so daunting.

“I know that you cannot return to me now,” his father had said, lowly so that he could choose to ignore it if he wished, ”but I would have you know that there is always a place for you, and a home for which you to return.”

In another lifetime father and son alike did not regret a parting so unnecessarily bitter.

~o~

Legolas was bound for the north in search of half wild men and their strange customs. The Dunedain.

Elves, for better or worse, lived long lives and shock was not good for the constitution. Had Tauriel been able to feel anything other than consuming pain of the heart she was sure that she would have felt something akin to shock.

Both for the sudden change of fate for her oldest and dearest friend and the way that he looked at her. She was no fool and she recognised it for what it was; love.

Kili had looked at her like that once, on the shore of a burning and ruinous town. 

As it were, she felt nothing.

As Legolas walked away she watched his receding back. She thought perhaps, idly, that he would have loved her half-dwarven children simply for the grace of having been born of her.

In another lifetime she would have been right.

~o~

In another lifetime Tauriel would never have dared talk so brazenly to her king. As it was there was a strange freedom in having been banished. He was no longer her sovereign.

It was something she would ponder later when she no longer held her dead love in her arms, his skin still warm from the life that had only recently fled.

“They want to bury him.”

Thranduil looked at her and not for the first time, she saw Legolas in his features. Her friend and comrade in arms would surely leave now and she found that his father was a poor replacement.

“It is their way.” He said and to Tauriel, his words carefully chosen, “He was born from stone and to stone he must return.”

For a childish and terrible moment Tauriel considered refusing to move. To stay there until she too gave in. Perhaps then she would be allowed to have the time with her love the battle had so cruelly denied her…

A rough hand grabbed her face. 

“I know what you are thinking and you must not.” Thranduil said fiercely, his face only inches from hers, “I have lost too many lives in this battle and I will not allow for another. I see now that you loved him, truly loved him, and that he loved you in return. I do not understand how such a match came to be but nor have I a wish to. Answer me this, Captain: would your love want to see you fade?”

Though he let go of her face Tauriel did not look away. She did not know how long they remained so poised; two elves staring at each other with a dead dwarf between them, but when his words finally filtered through the grief fuelled haze of her mind the light had changed. She looked at the sky; it had grown darker.

“They will be coming for him soon.” She said quietly.

Thranduil looked at her, “And will you come with me?”

Kili was still in her ams. She brushed back an errant wisp of hair from his forehead and ignored the coldness of his skin just as she ignored the blood on his shirt. He could not love her now though she would never stop loving him.

She did not look at her once again king as she answered. 

“Yes.” 

He allowed her time until they heard the first of the dwarven voices from below. They were coming to retrieve the bodies of their kin. She allowed herself one last touch before she nodded her ascent.

Carefully, and with more care than she would ever have believed her king capable of, Thranduil joined her in lifting Kili’s body off her. They laid him flat, his hands crossed upon his breast and Tauriel could almost believe that his end had been peaceful. She wished she could make herself believe it; she would do much to forget the pain in his eyes as he lay dying.

“Come. There is much to be done.”

Tauriel paused before following her King. He waited for her but did not turn.

She picked up Kili’s sword from where it had skittered during the fight and weighed it in her hands. It was of fine dwarfish make, a sword for the heir of Durin. She held it tight. In return she took her elvish knives and folded them carefully in his hands.

Thranduil made no comment.

“I am ready.” She said and her voice, even to her own ears, sounded stronger.

“I do not think anyone is ever ready.” Said Thranduil quietly.

Tauriel had heard the stories of the warrior queen that had ruled by their king’s side as had everyone in the Greenwood. Legolas’ story about his mother had touched her as the words of a son on his mother, but it was only now that she considered that Thranduil, too, had lost something that day.

He knew what it was to lose something that should never be lost.

“He would not want to see me fade.” She said quietly, “I will fight for him now as much as I did when he still drew breath.”

At this Thranduil did turn and Tauriel saw him as her king once again. “Then Mirkwood will need a Captain once more. There are dark times ahead.”

Then, and for many years after, Tauriel followed her king without question, for it seemed an understanding had been struck that day. While the king always placed his people above the outside world there were many times where his Captain fought in the defence of peoples not her own.

No one questioned why she fought so or with such deadly skill, though many did question her choice of weapon.

They had never before seen an elf fight with a dwarfish sword.

 

~o~

In another lifetime Fili took the throne of Erebor three weeks after the Battle of the Five armies. Thorin had fought hard and long for his life but eventually his will had ebbed away along with his blood.

In reality, his death could have been a blessing. Though he died with a clear mind, there were none present who had doubted that the sickness would return once he laid eyes upon the precious hoard once more. Thorin Oakenshield died surrounded by his kin, both in blood and bond. It was a better end to his life than many had thought he would receive.

But that meant that a crumbling stone throne was left without an occupant.

Fili’s coronation was a somber occasion. With a brother still laid upon his sickbed and a mother still journeying to her ancestral home there was not much in the way of family. But, as he had been taught to do, he endured.

To the joint relief of his own people and those who lived around him, Fili was a fair ruler and a good king. 

He knew well the danger of hoarding gold, and had paid a steep price for the lesson. And so, in turn, he was free with the vast amount that he had. Dale was rebuilt, Mirkwood was repaid in only slightly begrudging gratitude and his own people grew strong and healthy. 

Erebor remained a rich kingdom, for there was more than one dwarf, even a king, could ever spend in one lifetime locked away in it’s halls. The treasury was, however, emptier than it had been for decades. 

That was when Fili realised a curious thing. 

The less material treasure he had, the more treasure of a different sort he gained. 

Soon, and before he had thought to realise, he had a whole family.

A brother, who was still just as hilariously besotted with his love as he had been a decade ago, a mother who on occasion still cuffed the back of his head to let him know his place, King Under the Mountain or no, and cousins galore who were still as well meaning and aggravating as they had been when he was little more than a boy.

And that wasn’t even counting his wife, nor his children.

His wife he’d met when she journeyed to her natural home in the Lonely Mountain from the Iron Hills. From the moment he’d seen her he’d knew he’d love no other. After four years of courting and a lot of convincing (on both sides) they had been married with more pomp and tradition than either had required. 

And then his children.

If fighting the Battle for the mountain had given him his children then he would go to war every day for the rest of his life and be glad. Two sons and a daughter, all doted upon by their father. And that was without bringing Kili into the equation who could never refuse his nephews or niece anything within or without his power to give them.

Fili looked at his family often, and then looked beyond them to his people. It had cost much to get to here. Many people had been lost along the way and many values had been compromised. But none of it seemed to matter in the face of such joy.

It seemed everything had worked out for the better.

In this lifetime Fili looked out at his uncle from the ledge to which he had been dragged and felt the tip of an orcish sword pressed between his shoulder blades. He knew what was to come; and he knew better than to fear it.

There were worse things than death. He remembered looking at his Uncle, once so proud and tall, stride through the golden treasure of Erebor’s halls. There had been a look in his countenance; want, need and unfettered jealously. That Fili would never live to feel it, even for a fraction of a second, was a mercy of the smallest order.

He looked at his Uncle, proud once more, for the last time.

And then he was gone.

~o~

In another time the dwarves had called Sigrid a Queen, and they had done so not only out of tradition but also of respect.

Her marriage to their king, Fill, sister-son of the late king Thorin, had been opposed ceaselessly in their days of courting. The race of men found the dwarves too stubborn to wed their refined Lady of Dale and dwarves found nothing warranting merit in the talentless brood of men.

It seemed that the two races would refuse to be reconciled, right up until the day of the wedding. It had irked many of Sigrid’s own people that she was to be dressed as a dwarven bride. Many had cast disapproving looks at the braids woven carefully into her hair and few had appreciated the beauty of the beads her betrothed had made for her. 

It wasn't until the ceremony began that the humans among the congregation stopped harbouring their ill thoughts and actually sought to listen to the proceedings.

It was a human wedding.

The vows and promises had been spoken many a time within Laketown, though none among the dwarves had heard them before. The message was clear. The two races were bound together and the only method of peaceful cohabitation was to be compromise.

The solution did not appear quite as outlandish as it had before the wedding.

Sigrid became popular within the mountain, somewhat of a marvel, after the tensions with her people eased. That a daughter of men could tend the wounded, sew, mend, read, write and advise their king on politics won the respect of every dwarf in Erebor. That she could do it all without losing composure won her their love.

Likewise in Dale dwarven travellers brought news and stories of the mountain. When the royal couple travelled beyond their fortress it was clear to all that they led a prosperous and happy dynasty; one that would extend to Dale with every new trade agreement.

Their reign was long. Sigrid bore her husband three children, two sons and a daughter, and in return Fili devoted himself entirely to their family. 

When she died at the grand age of eighty six it was safe in her bed with the knowledge that her family was safe and cared for. 

In this lifetime Sigrid didn’t go to any of the funerals of the House of Durin. She could barely remember which dwarf belonged to which name and when she remembered back to the time when her house was invaded by dwarves she remembered very little. There had a been a sick one and two or three more…was one his brother perhaps?

It mattered little.

~o~

In another life Bilbo planted his stolen acorn at the end of his garden. For a while he worried nothing might come of it.

It wasn’t until a green shoot of a forgotten seed emerged that Bilbo remembered.

All the details that had slipped his mind coloured his memories until he could smell the woodsmoke from the campfire and feel the cold stone of Erebor beneath his feet. 

He stayed melancholy for many days. It seemed that with the good memories came the bad. The vivid recollections of death and blood and madness.

It wasn’t until three weeks later when Thorin arrived in the Shire for his annual visit did he feel he could relax.

Looking at his friend it was clear; there was no madness there.

Bilbo looked at Thorin as the dwarf king clasped his shoulder and allowed himself to be led into his house.

Out of the windows the small oak grew ever bigger.

~o~

In another life Legolas had a mother who never died on the fields of Gundabad. 

He was raised with the gentle voice and strong hands of his mother and he never once doubted that his father loved him.

~o~

In another lifetime Tauriel learnt to love her prince.

It was obvious to all, his father especially, that there was no end of Legolas’ regard for her. Some said that he would have willingly walked to Valinor and back for her should she so have asked. 

And yet, when she took his hand for the first time, still she felt unsure.

They had been shedding their dinted and dulled armour when her bravery struck. It was a harsh fight that day, the forest grew darker and more malevolent with each patrol and she was not so fool enough as to believe that this was a fight that even the combined force of Mirkwood could fight alone.

She was covered in the foul blood of the spiders that invaded her home land when she looked up and saw her prince. He had faired no better than her; there were lines that told a weary tale set upon his face.

When she had reached for him he looked down at their joined hands. She could see his blonde hair, so light and fine, stiff with the congealed gore of the day.

“Tauriel?” He questioned. She did not imagine the uncertain note to his voice. Had she have spoken she knew it would have been reflected in hers.

She did not want to be alone. Legolas loved her. She could love him in return.

And so she did.

The love that she grew for him was as real and visceral as that which he bore for her as she based it in friendship. He became a point of beauty in her life, a reminder that not all the world was yet shadow. Sometimes, hidden away in the safety in their chambers, he whispered to her that she was the same for him. 

He was her partner in every sense of the world. He was still her friend, the very best, but now she knew that wherever she needed him, in their home or on the battlefield, there would he be. For the first time in a great many years Tauriel came to realise that what she was living in was actually a state of contentment. It seeped through her bones and sat in her chest like a heated stone; keeping the chill of the pervading shadow at bay. 

And so it happened that her life went on. 

A great many years later she thought very little of the band of dwarves captured on the old paths. She guarded them as was her duty as Captain of the Guard, and then returned home to a warm bed and a lit hearth.

The youngest of their company never held her interest past a mere flicker of consciousness. Perhaps she spared a thought for how foolhardy he must have been to believe that she would arm him in the midst of battle but even then she could not recall entirely.

All she knew was that the young dwarf died eventually, on the battlefield with his kin. She thought little of him apart from how fleeting his life must have been. But still, was it not the same for all mortals?

The young dwarf was soon forgotten and Tauriel went in search of her prince and lover.

In another lifetime grief did not take her at the fall of Kili, heir of Durin, in her defence.

In another lifetime Tauriel managed a happy life.

~o~

In another lifetime the Battle of the Five Armies was not the last battle in which Kili, prince of Erebor, fought.

There were many skirmishes on the borders of Erebor. As the world darkened many foul things crawled from its depths with greedy eyes fixed on hidden gold.

But through the trials of living in a poisoned world the strength of Erebor neither waned nor faltered. The king sat on a throne that he had fought his long life for and commanded for his two nephews to safeguard their people and protect those they could. 

There were many who regarded the king’s sister-sons with wary scrutiny. It was not suspicion but it could easily have become so. It was well known that the king had fought against his gold sickness and won. The same could not be said for his nephews.

Dwarves and men alike watched closely for any sign of the hereditary greed that could seize either young dwarf and drown them in want. 

And yet it did not happen. 

Kili was no fool, he knew that no one had really expected his brother to fall prey to the sickness. For all that he brother was crowned in gold he had never particularly cared for the metal. His brother was born to be a king. His first concern was the people that would one day be his. To him gold was a fine way of trading for his people’s comfort and protection. It was also particularly amendable to being wrought into fine tokens and art- all the more to preserve their heritage and birthright. Gold had never caused a jealousy in him and for that Kili was grateful.

However, much to all but a few’s surprise, lust for gold never managed to catch Kili either.

He was the flighty brother, that he knew. Where his brother was stout and steadfast, a true dwarf, he was not. It wasn't the lack of beard that made him a strange dwarf any more than it was the bow he carried. What set him apart was something that dwelt far deeper within. A fickle nature that sat deep in his heart.

And of course, the company he chose to keep. There had, of course, been many murmuring about the youngest prince and his chosen consort.

Still, he fought for his homeland and his people, and many more things beside.

On the after eve of one battle he sat with a group of men in a weary circle. Losses had been few and though there were glad tidings in the air it was muted with the exhaustion of the company. Many men of Dale had joined the fight and it was with them that Kili had chose to cast his heavy shield aside and rest a while. They gathered close around the campfire in their midst.

One man had looked at him as he sat before moving to make room.

“Must be looking forward to returning to your mountain, eh, Master Dwarf?”

Kili smiled at the thought of the welcome that would await him. Laughter and shouting and hugs and a fine woman with long red hair who he had not seen in far too long.

“Aye, that I am.”

The human gave a dreamy sort of smile and looked off into the fire, “To return to all that gold must be a fine thing indeed.”

Kili looked around, “It is not to the gold that I return.”

“No?”

“I have much dearer reasons to return than for the love of pretty metals.”

The human smiled again and returned to gazing at the flame. 

Kili’s eye was caught elsewhere. His castaway shield caught the firelight beautifully and the dancing flames illuminated a single word carved on the inside edge. In battle it was a reminder of what to fight for and after it was a reason to hurry home.

 

Tauriel.

 

~o~

In another lifetime it was well known to those who had cause to hear it that Lord Elrond of the Last Homely House was favoured by the Lady Galadriel. As her son-in-law he had feared her judgement upon him but he needn’t have. Her daughter’s continued happiness ensured that the Lady Galadriel extended her love to her daughter’s husband.

And never, in all of their long lives, did Celebrian cease to be happy.

In this lifetime the Lady of the Golden Woods felt nothing towards the Lord of Rivendell other than respect and as much contempt as she allowed herself to harbour.

She wanted to have forgiven him.

She knew in her heart that should moving mountains have promised to save her daughter then her son-in-law would have done so with a glad heart. She knew he had done everything that there was to be done in middle earth and yet still the immutable fact remained. Had her daughter never have married the half-elf then she would still be by her mother’s side.

For many years he carried her blame and to hold Galadriel’s scorn was no small undertaking. But for many years the Lord of Rivendell bore the weight of it. 

He would have carried it for many years more, thinking it was his due, if not for attempted resurrection of the Kingdom of Angmar.

To see Sauron rising before his eyes was terrifying.

To see Galadriel defeat him was awe-inspiring.

In the aftermath he was met with more weakness in Galadriel than he had ever expected of existing. The fact that she clung to him, in need of his protection, showed how truly she had depleted herself. When he was the only thing propping up the Lady of Lothlorien it was clear to all that though Galadriel had beaten Sauron, she had not done it without paying the heavy price of her wellbeing. 

Though many forgot, especially when he wielded his sword which had seen many battles and slew many foes, Elrond Peredhel was not made for war. Though he had the skill of a warrior it was paired with the hands and heart of a healer.

And as such he was bound by duty to care for any being in need of his aid, whether she despised him or no.

He had been bid to return Galadriel to Lorien, and he would, and then he would stay until she no longer needed his care.

After a long and arduous journey, made harder by Galadriel’s persisting weakness, he crossed into the eves of the golden woods, supporting the Lady to which they belonged. It was not long before her people, and then her husband, descended and she was taken from him to rest in her own chambers.

Celeborn had approached him not long after seeing to his wife, “We thank you, Elrond, for what you have done both for my wife and all of this realm. I would see you returned safely to your own halls.”

The dismissal was clear. Celeborn had never shared all of his wife’s distaste for him but neither had he ever been lacking in it. He had also never cultivated his wife’s subtlety in hiding it.

Elrond drew his composure around him, “As would I. But I would see my daughter ere I take my leave.”

For this Celeborn’s only answer was a curt nod. There was little he could do to separate father and daughter.

Elrond had dearly wanted to see his daughter, he missed her more than he would have thought possible before she had left Imladris, but his concern was twofold. He doubted that his child’s grandmother was as well as others believed her to be.

His worry was soon to be proven correct.

Seeing Arwen again, happier and more at peace than when he had last seen her, was a balm for his soul. It was during one of their evenings together that Elrond was called upon.

Celeborn had interrupted their conversation, it was on a trivial matter but Elrond would have happily listened to anything if it was spoken in his daughter’s voice, and sought a private audience with Elrond.

Arwen had barely swept from the room with a smile for her father and grandfather before Celeborn turned to Elrond.

“She does not grow stronger.”

Elrond had not seen Galadriel since she was first carried away by a myriad of healers having just stumbled from the road.

“I did not think she would.” He answered.

At this Celeborn looked at him, it was hard and unforgiving stare, but one that Elrond took no offence to.

“This is why you stayed, is it not? You knew she would weaken further.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you said nothing.”

The sun was setting on the golden leaves of Lorien and the forest was left in golden light and dusky shadows.

“Would you have listened to me if I told you to let me help her?” He asked, “Would she have allowed it?”

Celeborn gave no answer but did not look away.

“Take me to her now. I will heal her.”

Again in silence Celeborn turned and walked away. This time, however, Elrond followed.

Elves bowed deferentially as they passed them on their way to Elrond’s newest patient. Neither lord paid them any heed. It was only at the final door did Celeborn pause.

“Here I leave you. Send for me if any news should arise.”

And with that Elrond was left alone at the door of Galadriel.

Slowly, he pushed it open. Galadriel was propped into a sitting position though her eyes remained closed. Her skin, no longer luminous, was pale and cold to the touch. Even her hair, famed for it’s beauty, was dull and faded.

“I was wondering when they would send for you.” She murmured.

She opened her eyes and turned her head to him. She looked tired and weary. So very weary.

“They should have done so sooner.” He said in reply.

Her chalky lips pulled up a little in reply.

“Do not take offence when I tell you it was because I requested you be kept away.”

Elrond moved to her other side and took her wrist. Her pulse was faint but steady. A good sign.

“My lady, here I am your healer.” He said evenly, “I cannot take offence.”

“They think it is because of my aversion to you that I did not allow for your presence. In truth, it was not.”

Elrond laid her hand back by her side carefully and looked upon her curiously. Never before had he heard her speak so plainly.

She did not carry on until he had finished his examination of her and had moved to the healing supplies left waiting for him.

“You came when I called.”

Elrond turned to her, she regarded him as though she had asked a question to which she expected an answer.

“My Lady?” He asked eventually.

“When I sent word of the growing strength of the Necromancer. You came to my aid despite the animosity that lies between us.”

“I have never felt animosity towards you, my lady.”

“But you knew well how I felt about you. And yet you still came.”

Elrond gauged her, she looked more engaged with life than she had when he first entered the room but he wished the conversation would end nonetheless.

“Sauron is an offence to the freedom and peace of our land.” He said to her and watched as her eyes tracked his hands’ movements as he prepared her draught. “He cannot be allowed to remain.” 

She nodded slowly and shifted, as though trying to sit further upright, “That is what I told myself.” She said, “That you fought for the good of the land and not because of my call. But then you brought me back here. You have stayed to heal me even when none had asked this of you.”

He found he had no answer to this. Instead, he contented himself with continuing in his work.

“Come.”

Galadriel’s eyes were brighter, not with fever, but with intent. He walked to her bedside and waited. With a deliberate hand she reached out and took his. She looked at their joined hands curiously as though she did not recall how they came to be. The dying sunlight glinted at the jewels adorning both their hands.

“I think I have judged you harshly for too many years. It occurs to me now that you bear the same burdens as I.”

Elrond followed her gaze to the ring sat upon her finger and the terrible cost that she suffered upon using it.

“Your power is depleted, not gone, my Lady. You will grow strong again.”

She looked at him sharply and he was reminded forcibly of the disdain in which she had always held him.

“I speak not of the ring, Peredhel, but of the ghost that hangs over us.”

He could not speak. A wound that he so often pretended was healing brought to the surface for all to see.

“I hated you because I lost my daughter,” she continued quietly, “I quite forgot that you lost your wife.”

Outside the sun continued to fade upon the golden leaves and inside the draught lay forgotten. The Lord of Imladris sat at the bedside of the Lady of the Golden Woods and held her hand as they healed together.

Though the day was ending it felt to both of them as a beginning.

~o~

“Will you have peace, or will you have war?”

In another lifetime the answer was different.

Thorin looked to his deceitful and treacherous company and saw…expectation.

They were waiting for him to give them their orders. To give this human scoundrel his answer. There were no words of discouragement and hatred, and would not an enemy try to turn others against him?

All too clearly he saw those people in front of him.

Dwarves he had known from birth and kin that had been forged through fire. His nephews, his only reason for perseverance for so many years looked at him as though he would order them to their deaths.

There was apprehension there, trepidation and fear.

He could not abide it. He would not.

Thorin Oakenshield was not his grandfather and it was time that the world knew it.

“Peace.” He said and his voice sounded as disused as the great doors of the mountain, “I would have peace.”

 

~o~

Sigrid had not seen her father in too long. 

The battle was long over and though she kept hope for her sister and brother she held none of it for herself.

“When do you think Da will find us, Sig?” Tilda asked sleepily three days after the battle had been won.

Though he said nothing Sigrid felt the keen gaze of her brother settle upon her.

“Soon, Tilda, soon. I bet he’s out there looking for us right now. We’ve just to keep on being brave and he’s find us. Just like he always does.” She smiled and hoped it didn’t look as brittle as she felt. She looked at Bain and to both her relief and chagrin he looked cautiously buoyed by her conviction. “You’ll see.” She said.

It was the next day when she knew that there was no hope left to be either given or kept.

And it all started with Bain.

They kept together as much as they could, for ruins were the perfect place to lose family and Sigrid had precious left to be kept hold of.

She looked away for a mere moment and when she looked back Bain was gone, pulled away into a shifting throng of people.

She fought her way through them holding her sister tight beside her.

“What do we do?” One wailed.

“Winter is coming and our shelter will not last the-“

“The elves are demanding a council-“

“Who will lead us now?”

By the last shout Sigrid had reached her brother. He stood wild eyed in the sea of shouting townspeople and it took all Sigrid had not to push him behind her.

“What is going on here?” She demanded.

She looked out to the people who she had lvdd by all her life and they stared back.

One stepped forward, “My lady,” he said with an oddly deferential nod, “your father has not returned to us and the people need direction. As your father’s eldest son and descendent of the Lord Girion it is your brother’s right of blood to lead us.”

She looked at him and she looked at her brother. Her brother who was grasping her hand like a lifeline and trying very hard not to cry.

“Excuse me.” She said stiffly.

With a quick tug she towed both her siblings into a ruined cellar and sat Bain down on the nearest bench. He was shaking and she knelt in front of him and held his face in her hands.

“Do you want this?” She asked quietly.

Bain looked at her and she saw the child that he wasn’t any longer. He looked ashamed but when he shook his head miserably Sigrid made no mention of it.

She hugged him, “Then you needn’t worry about it. You are a boy of thirteen, you shouldn’t be leading anybody- not yet.”

“But what about the people?” He asked with a sniff, “What’s going to happen to them?”

“Like I said,” Said Sigrid not yet having relinquished her hold on him, “you are a boy of thirteen, but you have a sister of nineteen.”

Bain pulled back, “Sig, you only had your sixteenth birthday a month ago.”

Once again Sigrid found the strength to smile for her brother though already the pressure of her people was bearing heavily on her heart.

“Three weeks ago, brother, I was the simple daughter of a bargeman. I doubt anyone paid great attention to my age, and even those who did won’t try and correct me now.”

Her brother smiled tremulously at her and this time her answering one did not taste quite so sour.

Until she felt her sister tugging her sleeve.

“Sig…does this mean Da’s dead?”

To lie once more was more than Sigrid had in her.

“I don’t know.” She said and reached out for her sister too. With a sibling in each arm where she could so easily protect them it was a simpler thing to be brave. “I don’t know.”

It was an hour or two later that they finally emerged from their hiding place and when they did many remarked that the newly minted Lady of Dale moved differently among her ruins.

When she stood above them on a crumbing wall with her brother and sister at her feet many gathered to listen.

With a clear, strong voice she began.

“I am Sigrid, eldest child to Bard the Dragon Slayer, descendant of Lord Girion of Dale. Earlier this day you came to family to ask for direction. ” Here she paused and her eyes flickered to her brother and sister, huddled together and completely ignored by the growing crowd before her. “I’m standing before you to tell you that I would consider it a privilege to help you and an honour to govern you.”

Faced with the stony gaze of the people who had once considered her beneath them her will quavered.

“Come on.” She said quietly as she grabbed Bain and Tilda by the hand. She was trying to hustle them away from the crowd when a voice spoke up.

“What about the boy?”

Sigrid turned around. A man had stepped forward who had his eyes fixed on her brother. Some of the crowd behind him stirred.

“He should be the one to lead us.” The man carried on, “I saw ‘im, in the battle, I saw ‘im with a sword in his hand. He should be the lord of this place not some girl still wearing her mother’s skirts!”

The crowd murmured behind him and Sigrid saw a few nodding.

She released her sister’s hand and dragged her brother forward with her as she walked towards the man. She stopped only a foot away from him. Though she stood nearly a full head shorter than him she imagined her father standing behind her. He would want her to protect her brother from a crushing fate, at least until he was old enough to weather it himself. And for the first time, she considered the fact that she was the daughter of a lord. She could face this man down, for the love of her family and because to do so was her right. And what’s more than that she would.

She put on her haughtiest tone, one she had only ever used in jest before, and spoke loud enough for all to here.

“That boy you’re speaking about is my brother. He is underage and until such a time as he comes of age I will be acting as his regent. I am of the same blood as he and you will follow me as you were so eager to follow him.” She looked out at the faces in front of her and saw them all locked on her. She addressed the crowd, “You may have seen him fight but you will not see him rule. Not for a while yet. While he may fight like a man he is still a boy and this is no job for a child. But I pledge to you, in front of you all, that I will rebuild our home. I will work with you to establish a city to be proud of and one in which we can all live in in peace. If you will have me I promise to love and care for you as my citizens and people of Dale.”

Silence met her words. 

Her brother’s slid her hand from hers.

He took a deep breath and if his voice wavered all chose to ignore it, “As heir to the lordship of Dale I appoint my sister to act as my regent until I come of the proper age. Sigrid, that is.” He blushed and looked down but no one objected to his words.

There was a mighty silence where Sigrid imagined that she was not the only one to hold her breath.

“Hail Sigrid, Lady of Dale.” 

It was a small voice in the middle of the crowd but soon the chant was picked up by all present. Tilda stepped forward and Bain stepped back until the small family looked out at the sea of people that their sister now commanded.

She stopped their noise with a raise of her hand.

“I was told the Elvenking wished to speak with me.” She said, “I would thank whosoever led me to him.”

It was like that the Sigrid became cemented in the hearts of her people as the Lady of Dale. In the days after the battle they often commended her on her work in the healing tents and her careful talk with the King of the Elves and the trade that opened as a result. When she handed them food from the wagons they praised her and when stone masons from Erebor arrived to breathe life back into their ruined city they credited her with their survival.

It was only her brother and sister who saw how her hands shook more each day as she slept less each night. How nervous she was before meeting these people who seemed to hold her in such high esteem.

When the word came in that their father had been found upon the field it was they who nearly saw her break.

“I would like to see him.” She said to the messenger who had delivered the grave news.  
When the man did not immediately begin to lead the way she looked at him.

Though she had been Regent for coming on a week it had surprised her easily she took to having her orders followed.

The man shifted uneasily, “He’s…he’s not a…pretty sight, begging you pardon, my Lady.”

Sigrid looked to where her brother and sister watched her.

“Tilda, go run errands for the nurses. They need all the help they can get. And Bain, read those missives from the King Under the Mountain. I need to know which to respond to first. I shan’t be long.”

Instant protest met her words.

“I want to see Da!”

“Why can’t we go too!”

“I can help the nurses later, why can’t I go with you?”

“It’s not fair!”

“Enough!” Sigrid felt the tears well up in her eyes and as she pressed her hand to her mouth. Both Tilda and Bain looked at her in shock; Sigrid couldn’t remember the last time she had shouted at them.

“Sigrid-“ her brother began.

“Don’t let this be your last memory of him.” Sigrid begged. Her voice was weak in a way she hadn’t allowed it to be in over a week. “I’ll go see him. Not because I’m the oldest but because he wouldn’t want you to see him like that.”

Tilda sniffed and said in a thick voice, “He wouldn’t want you to see him like that either, Sig.” 

Sigrid had no answer to that. Instead she let the messenger lead her away to where the recovered bodies were being kept.

Her father, the messenger informed her, was being kept away from the others. She didn’t reply. She didn’t talk at all until he had left her in a room with only her father for company.

When she looked at him she nearly threw up. She was suddenly viscerally glad that she hadn’t let Bain or Tilda come with her. She almost wished that she had never come.

Her father was laid out with obvious respect but nothing could hide those injuries. Sigrid couldn’t tell what had finally killed him but she had no wish to find out. Though his face had been cleaned of blood and gore nothing could hide the deep gash that dissected his brow. His arm didn’t quite sit right with the rest of his body and Sigrid wondered if it had been broken while he was still alive or after he had passed. She hoped it was after. She deliberately avoided looking at his chest, so obviously crushed by some great weight- a swinging mace perhaps? A jarring blow by one of the huge monsters she had seen climbing the city walls? Or perhaps- She didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Sigrid stood over her father and suddenly she felt like a little girl again. This was the man who had raised her, held her in his arms when she was small and tucked her into bed until she was fourteen and she had told him that she was practically an adult now. She wished she could go back and steal those words away. She wished she could tell him that she always needed him and she needed him now and-

She felt a tear run down her face and soon there were so many that she could not see for them.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Da.” She whispered, “All these people wanting my help and I don’t know if I can do it. I want to make you proud of me and I’m trying, Da, I really am.”

Many streets away and in the house that they had been using for it was more complete than some of the others Tilda and Bain awaited their sister. They waited until an hour had past and then another. The sun sank in the sky and still their sister had not returned.

“Come on.” Said Bain eventually. Hand in hand the children went out into the street. They had barely reached the end of it when Sigrid appeared. She was walking towards them and to her siblings, those that knew her best, there seemed something different about her, as though something within her had passed. She looked surer, calmer and if they hadn’t known better they would have said that she had been the Lady of Dale for much longer than a mere week.

When she reached them she bent and kissed them both on the forehead before hugging them. It was as though their sister was back again instead of this strange Lady. But when they looked again she was neither. In fact, she was both.

“It’s going to be okay.” She told both of them. “We can do it. We’ve got each other.”

In another lifetime Dale flourished under the rule of Queen Sigrid, the Lady of Dale. When the time came for her regency to end and for her brother’s rule to begin it came as a shock to no one that his first act as king was to abdicate. 

Sigrid reclaimed her throne with a smile.

While it was practiced and elegant for her people, for her family it was warm.

~o~

At the end of the battle the decisive will of the elves faltered.

In battle they had moved, thought and fought as a single unit; in the aftermath they milled lost upon the field. Some thought to help carry the wounded to the healing tents, and others dispatched orcs and goblins alike who dared cling to their forsaken lives.

Some simply stared at the bodies of the kin they had lost.

“What’s going on?” Kili whispered to Tauriel, who had not left his side since she first carried him from the killing field.

She had no answer. But it was time overdue that she should seek one.

The second she reappeared to her people there was a sense of palpable relief. 

“Captain!” They called to her as though they did not know well that she had been banished, “What are your orders?”

Several close by looked at her hopefully, as though she would now know what to do, as though the king himself had appointed her as his second.

“Where is the king?” She asked instead.

Many looked down and more than a few looked to a rocky outcrop that stood over the icy falls.

“He has been gone many hours.” One ventured.

Tauriel looked to her soldier. She had trained many of them personally and presided over them all. She looked back to Kili. He would be fine.

“I will find him and bring him forth. Until then help the men bring in their wounded and tend to those you can. Pile any others for a pyre.”

As she started towards the last known place of the king she heard the sound of renewed vigour behind her. Her soldiers made a fine battalion but, like all armies, it needed a head. She would have to do until the king sent her away again.

When she reached the familiar land of ice she steadfastly ignored the rocky outcrop where she had nearly lost her life and that of her love. It was upon these crags that she had last seen Legolas as he protected Thorin Oakenshield from afar.

She continued.

The way was hard with the ice having been broken up in the battle between Thorin and Azog. She leapt from one floating ice sheet to another only to find…nothing. She crept to the edge of the ice where she looked out upon the kingdom that would once again become magnificent under dwarfish rule. There was no sign of her king, her prince or anything-

There was her king’s cloak.

Discarded upon the ice like a rag, but unmistakable. She had ridden by the side of her king as Captain of his Guard for too long not to recognise the cloth fastened to his armour. Though she dared not think why he would be forced to part with it cold tendrils of fear gripped her heart and squeezed. She took a breath and forced the feeling away. The king would have been unharmed when his army saw him pass this way. They would not have let him go otherwise.

She moved over to where it was, beside a crevice, where she herself had been fighting not too long ago. She picked it up and looked over the edge.

He was there! Far down but not so far that she could not see the distinctive colouring that her king and her friend both shared. Dropping the cloak she scaled the wall down to where he was. He did not look up as she descended.

It was only when she had nearly reached her king did she realise that something was terribly, dreadfully wrong.

The Elvenking was not alone.

He held in his arms a body that was as familiar to her as her own. Blonde hair spilled over his father’s arm and Tauriel looked down to see Legolas, held in his father’s arms as he never had been in life.

Even as she watched Thranduil reached out with careful fingers to brush against his son’s cold cheek.

As Captain, Tauriel had seen more death in her life than many other elves had ever dreamt of but nothing had caused a break in her such as this. Her legs faltered and her breath wouldn’t stay in her lungs long enough to stop the burning in her chest.

When she slid to the floor only then did Thranduil turn.

And therein lay the true depth of his grief.

There had been rumours for centuries in Mirkwood that the king had not returned from the north as whole as he had left. There were whispers about dragon fire and terrible injuries but nothing that had ever took root in the mind of his subjects. One needed only to look at the king to see his face, unblemished, whole and proud, and know that he had suffered no great pain. To see him walk showed all of the grace and poise due to an elf of such high standing. The few that had seen him fight had left with every confidence in their ruler.

As Tauriel watched her king turn she distantly realised that the rumours had been true. His face was ravaged with old injuries, such as no glamour could hide in the face of his agony. With his sightless left eye and twisted, puckered skin he stood in stark contrast to the son that he held.

Legolas looked almost as if his death had been peaceful.

Tauriel crept forward to her friend, mindless of the father holding him. 

His skin was pale, paler than it had been while he had still lived but there was nothing obviously broken in his body. Simply a bruise on his temple. Livid purple and terrible and half hidden by unravelling braids. Tauriel herself had put those braids there. It was their custom before any battle. She would do his hair and then he would do hers. Her hair still held a braid put there by his hand. It had been the way for way for centuries.

Never again.

She reached out to touch him- had it only been a day ago they sat huddled together for warmth looking out upon Gundabad? The pain in his eyes as he talked about his mother; his eyes were flat now. Death had robbed them of meaning. She had seen every expression that this face could pull: laughter, sorrow, anger and joy. But now the face of her friend, the very dearest friend that she had ever had, or would ever have again she suspected, would remain still forever.

A hand deftly caught her wrist and jolted her from her grief. She looked up to the ruined face of her king.

“I do believe you were right, Captain.” He spoke quietly though she could plainly hear the tumult of fierce emotion behind the placid tone, “There is no love in me.” He looked to the son he held, “Not anymore.”

He moved then. He stood and with no further words, knelt to carry his son. Neither of them could go back the way they came and so they began their long walk back to the makeshift camp in silence.

All of Mirkwood grieved and cried out in shock when the sight of their king emerged from the distance, cradling his son. Tauriel kept close by, following Legolas as she had vowed to do only hours before.

Life went on.

Soon the Mirkwood elves returned to their cavernous halls and the king’s son was laid properly to rest. Many remembered him, even in the centuries to come. And those who did not remember the prince remembered a time when the king had seemed more than the stone from which his halls were carved. He was not a cruel king but it seemed as though his love for his people was simply a well that had run dry. Though he governed them he spared them no kind word or smile. The love that his people had for him, likewise, ran thin.

The king never hid his true face from his people again though many, shamefully and in private, wished that he would.

But it seemed to all that the only person’s whose opinion on the matter he actually sought was in no danger of seeing it.

The day the king of Mirkwood passed from Middle-earth was met with sadness, relief and no small amount of hope.

Wherever he may have been the remaining elves of Mirkwood hoped that the King they remembered from once long ago would be reunited with his son.

They had hope that once more their king would be whole.

~o~

In another lifetime the kingdom once known as Erebor was feared by all.

Though once proud and resplendent in it’s craftsmanship the kingdom had fallen to ruin. Fell creatures roamed it’s halls and the very walls seemed to breed malevolence and hate that seeped through the air like an insidious poison. 

In the years that passed after the disastrous loss of the Battle of the Five Armies the mountain was regarded warily though no evil had yet spilled out. 

The people who had once made their home in Laketown had fled but over the years many began to creep back, drawn to where they had once lived. 

Still no dark creatures, orc, goblin or an unnatural hybrid of the two, came forth. If it were not for the bodies that still littered what had years ago been the scene for a great battle many would have happily forgotten that any spite yet lingered in the land.

Decades passed and the people grew complacent.

They were never fool enough to rebuild Dale but several made an attempt to resurrect Esgaroth. From their watery little town they could see the smoke that plumed out of the mountain, but never any evidence of what it was being used to create.

It was sixty years after the decimation of the three armies that the people of the still rebuilding Laketown finally came to see what had become of the ancestral home of the fabled dwarves.

Legions upon legions of orcs marched from their stronghold set deep in the stone. They were followed by war machines the like of which many had never even dreamed of existing, never mind heard of. They came marching from the mountain for several days until many doubted if their number would ever stop.

Many speculated why it was now that they chose to reveal their strength. They did not speculate long for that was when the first of the battalions happened to chance upon their their humble town.

The few that escaped never forgot the horror of what they had endured that day and fewer still knew why it was happened. There was whisperings of a war in far-off Gondor- the War of the Ring, perhaps? It mattered little to them.

What did matter was when the strength of men, elves and dwarves alike did not only falter, but fail. The mountain had had nigh on sixty years to prepare for a war that many others had not foreseen.

They say in the end that it was Erebor what saved Sauron in his darkest hour, when all could have yet been won. 

Perhaps, in the end, the war to reclaim an ancient homeland was worth the price it took.


End file.
